


I am Afraid

by After_Baker_Street



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Established Relationship, M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:22:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/After_Baker_Street/pseuds/After_Baker_Street
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twist, and quite a lot of angst. Established relationship. No major character death but an ending that may leave some confused if they are not up to date on both. Crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I am Afraid

I do hope you’ve realized I’ve gone missing. I’m sure that you’ve found the address in the file (it’s still open on the table). It seems unlikely you’ve passed the night without me, I haven’t been gone all night in ages. Since before.

*

John, I’m sorry. I know we agreed to meet at Angelo’s for dinner, and I feel I must have missed dinner. Not the first time I’ve stood you up and likely disappointed you, I’m ashamed to admit. Maybe I’ve missed breakfast too. I can’t tell, they’ve taken my phone.

I must have been drugged. Traumatic brain injuries are also known to cause memory loss. By whichever method, they’ve managed to induce total amnesia for the entire evening. My memory of how they got me here, it’s nonexistent. Not just incomplete. I can’t recall even the slightest detail.

When last I remember, I was...well, I’d made an unlawful entry into a suspect’s flat. Yes, I know you prefer that I wait until you can accompany me (especially after I confessed the truth behind that unfortunate interaction at Soo Lin’s). I also prefer you by my side, of course. But this case has been moving so quickly! I had to act; I didn’t want our suspect to have time enough to delete the evidence.

*

John, this place is strange. Or the effects of the drug linger. The moment I feel sure I’ve deduced something about my location, reality seems to shift and I can no longer remember what I once saw. It’s frightening. Perhaps this is why you recommend against my recreational use of hallucinogens.

*

Yes, they must be drugging me somehow. I feel sure I haven’t slept, but things seem to be changing. I’ve checked myself over and over for evidence of a jab. I find nothing. As you know, I am skilled at hiding injection sites, so I know where to look. Nothing.

In fact, that’s the most salient feature of this place. Nothing. It is utterly unremarkable. So boring it slips from the mind the moment I focus on something else (you, for example).

What’s troubling me is not that I haven’t heard the first thing from my captors, but that I’m not even sure how long they’ve had me. I am adept at using nontraditional methods of timekeeping, but here they all seem to fail me. No access to sun or natural light of any kind. My own sense, my internal clock, has betrayed me, or it has been upset by pharmaceutical intervention.

*

Don’t worry, I’m unhurt. Strangely unhurt. In fact, even the bruise from last week’s altercation in the alleyway is gone. I’d estimate a haematoma of that size and colour normally takes more than 8 days to disappear completely. But it can’t have been that long. I can go some time without sleep, but not over a week.

*

John, do come quickly.

*

My thoughts feel scattered. I am trying to organize them, to remember what I know. I don’t know what day it is. Not even if it’s day or night. I’m not sure where I am, it’s so silent here, John. I can’t hear traffic, can’t hear water running, can’t even hear the buzzing of appliances. The soundproofing must be remarkably innovative, I can’t sort out how they’ve done it.

*

I feel disoriented, unmoored from reality. My thoughts become increasingly maudlin as time passes. I find I can’t recall how long it’s been since I saw you last. I kissed away the taste of tea and milk from your lips.

John you are indescribably precious to me, and being here without you, not knowing if you are safe, is torture. I don’t fear pain; I fear separation from you, though my experience of separation from you is extensive.

*

I feel sure you must know I am missing. I can’t really know how long I’ve been gone, there aren’t enough signs and signals to read, even subtle ones. So I’m going by something completely unreliable, the sense of dread, of wrongness that has settled behind my heart, has made a home in my throat, so that even my voice sounds foreign to me when I speak aloud.

John, this place is strange. I don’t know why I’m here, what they could possibly want. Assuming, of course, that there is a “they” and they want anything at all. I hope they’ve contacted you. I’m confident you will never give up searching for me. Your stubborn loyalty, though I call it irritating, ridiculous, is one of your best qualities. One of many.

Now that things have changed so much between us, I feel that can only increase your single-minded doggedness. With that, and your unflagging courage, I am sure you will come through for me again, as ever.

I still have no idea of my location, no clue at all. I’m sorry.

*

I feel empty. Neither hungry or as though I’ve just eaten. I can’t place myself in time or space. I’ve searched the room again, learnt nothing. Even I yield no clues. I am the anchor at the core of my being, as you are my anchor to life outside myself. But I can no longer rely on my eyes, or the evidence I perceive. I can no longer rely on myself.

I am beginning to worry about traumatic brain injury. I must not be processing short-term memory. The evidence for that is clear; it’s as close as can be, in the clothes I’m wearing. They are obviously mine, and this isn’t the first time I’ve worn them. But I don’t remember ever buying them. I don’t remember ever having worn them before. They carry no tags, no identifying marks of any kind.

I’m grasping at straws. Worse, at motes of dust suspended on air. There’s nothing I could grab, but when I reach for them, they still scatter.

I need something to ground me. I need you.

*

Wait. If my short-term memory is damaged, what am I missing?

*

I walk through my last moments again and again. Those are clear. Then I rewind, replay the day. Again and again. Looking for what I missed. Again and again.

Even after all my protests (I never sleep when I’m on a case). You didn’t listen, said I could think just as clearly lying down as I could whilst pacing around.

Waking to the surprise of you in my bed at nearly 4 am.

Your attempts at smothering me once I started speaking were half-hearted at best. You silenced me with your own mouth, not speaking but it distracts me nonetheless. I rest my head on your chest as you slip back beneath the blanket of sleep. And despite myself your warmth, your careful kindness, the metronome of your beating heart all collude to bring me peace against my will.

I woke again, and you were just leaving, fair hair haloed by the morning sun for all the world like something sainted, something sacred. Ordinary John Watson: patron saint of devotion and gunpowder.

You slid your hands beneath the cover and they were warm and kind. Before you left, you reminded me again about dinner, good natured as always.

*

I’m tired, John. Tired in a way that I have never known before. I feel like I’m fading, clarity slipping from my vision.

And I still don’t know where I am.

*

John, I am afraid.

*

I miss you. It feels as though eons have passed since last I touched you.

*

Please help me, I don’t know where I am.

*

I remember now, the last thing. I clicked on something that looked like ┓┏ 凵 =╱⊿┌┬┐ and there was nothing after.

*

 

I don’t know where I am, John.

*

 

.ma I erehw wonk t'nod I

 

 

 

˙ɯɐ ı ǝɹǝɥʍ ʍouʞ ʇ,uop ı

| d⊿NT kn⊿w wh┓┏ 凵 =╱

(Goodbye,

 

                                                   John)

**Author's Note:**

> As you can see, this is taken from The Bells of St John, so if you haven't seen the episode, it might not make much sense for you.


End file.
